


Hush Little Baby

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [13]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: An unexpected bit of news causes long-reaching effects on everyone's lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1999. Warning: miscarriage

**January, 1969**  
  
  
Mike felt a tiny thread of anxiety coil in the pit of his stomach as he grasped the knob on Isabel’s front door and let himself in. Not five minutes previously, she had called and asked him to come over, saying she needed to talk to him. Normally, he wouldn’t have been worried, but he’d heard an odd note in her voice, one that set off mental alarms, and he’d immediately dropped everything to go over there.

Walking as quietly as possible into the living room, he paused in the doorway, watching silently when his gaze fell on Isabel, who was curled up on one end of the couch with her knees pulled up under her chin and her arms folded across her midsection. She was staring in the direction of the back bay window, her expression closed and her eyes distant and unfocused as if she were deeply immersed in her own private world. 

He slipped into the room and perched on the opposite end of the sofa, resting his elbows on his legs and letting his folded hands dangle between his knees; alerted by the movement, Isabel glanced up and watched him approach without saying a word, her expression somber, and for a moment, he thought he saw tears shimmering in her eyes. 

"Hey, what’s goin on?" he asked softly, reaching out to stroke her cheek with the back of his forefinger. "Are you okay?" 

"No..." She swallowed hard, an audible gulp followed by small hitches in her chest that let him know just exactly how close she was to breaking down. "No, I'm not okay..." 

"What's wrong?" If it weren't for her posture--closed off and radiating "don't touch" vibes--he would have taken her in his arms and tried to comfort her, but it appeared that wasn't what she wanted. 

His mind raced as he tried to think of what could have caused this. Was her grandmother making trouble again? Had something happened at work? That the problem could be related to him or their relationship never crossed his mind; they hadn't had a serious argument in ages, and as far as he was concerned, everything was going along just fine. 

Isabel shifted to sit facing him, fixing him with a steady gaze, her dark eyes filled with apprehension; she was afraid, he realized abruptly. Whatever was upsetting her, she was afraid to say the words. 

"It's okay," he told her soothingly. "Whatever it is, just tell me." 

Drawing in a deep, shuddery breath, she appeared to be bracing herself as she licked her lips nervously. 

"I'm pregnant." 

Her voice was a whispery echo of itself, and for a moment, he wasn't certain he'd heard her at all. He sat frozen, his breath caught in his chest, and he felt as if he'd never be able to take another breath again until abruptly he gasped, a river of ice washing over his entire body when the full impact of her words hit him at last. 

"You're...Are you sure...?" 

A dream--it had to be a dream--any minute, Micky would wake him up snoring, and he'd go downstairs and tell the guys about the nightmare he'd just had, and they'd laugh and tease him about it, and-- 

"I got the results from Dr. Bates this morning. I'm just over three months along. I've suspected since before Christmas, but I'd hoped I was wrong..." 

Her quiet explanation continued, but he barely heard it, and he certainly didn't comprehend her words. His world collapsed into a narrow black tunnel in which he could only here those two fateful words on an endless repeat: "I'm pregnant...I'm pregnant...I'm pregnant." 

He dropped his head in his hands, trying to grasp--to understand--how such a horrible accident could have occured when they'd been so damn careful. Neither of them wanted kids now; they'd talked about it, they'd agreed never to take chances, never to forget about protection no matter how heated things got. If they didn't have any available, then it was cold shower time. Period. 

This shouldn't have happened...It defied all their care and precaution...It beat the odds...It was some sort of freak accident... 

"How...? How...?" He raked the fingers of both hands through his hair, his voice laden with despair. 

"I don't know." Isabel sounded calm, but the tremor underlying her tone belied her. "Something obviously wasn't as effective as it should've been. But no matter what, the result is the same." 

"Well." Mike sat up straight, his features hardening as he made his pronouncement. "We'll have to start makin plans. Tomorrow I'll go see about gettin a license, and we'll get married as soon as--" 

"What?" Isabel snapped her head up, glaring at him. "We most certainly will not!" 

He stared at her, surprised at her outburst, but not inclined to take it seriously. Marriage was the only option--surely she understood that. 

"Whaddaya mean we're not gettin married?" he repeated, his brows drawing together in a fierce scowl. "Of course we are!" 

"There's no ‘of course' about it," she snapped, uncurling her legs and jumping to her feet where she began pacing back and forth in obvious agitation. "There's no way we can get married now." 

"Well, the timin is bad, sure," he agreed. "But we don't have a choice--" 

"Oh, yes, we do!" she retorted hotly, whirling to face him with her hands braced on her hips. "We don't have to get married, and short of drugging, hog-tying and dragging me to the altar, you're not going to get me to agree to it!" 

He clenched his fists so tight he could feel his nails digging into his palms, but he fought to remain calm and rational, the better to counter her arguments with cool logic. 

"Why?" he asked, trying to keep his voice quiet. "We were going to get married anyway, so you know I'm not marryin you just because of the baby. We might as well do it now." 

"No." She folded her arms, her features set in obstinate lines. "No way. It would ruin everything." 

"What are you talkin about?" he demanded. "Ruin what?" 

"Your career," she replied evenly. "Everything you--and Micky and Peter and Davy--have worked so hard for all these years." 

Mike shook his head, unwilling to accept that. "How do you figure that? Us gettin married isn't gonna change anything--" 

"Are you being deliberately blind or just plain stupid?" Isabel shouted, flailing her arms at her sides out of sheer frustration. "It'll change everything! If we're married, you'll feel obligated to take total responsibility for me and for the baby, and there's no way in hell you can do that on the money you earn now. Yes." She inclined her head to acknowledge the unspoken point. "You guys are making more now than in the past, and things are looking really good, but you're still making ends meet, and nothing more. You certainly can't save any money." 

"But--" 

"Let me finish," she said, holding up one hand, and he reluctantly subsided to hear her out; at least if he knew all her objections, he could figure out how to counter them. "If we get married, you'd feel the burden of responsibility--I know you would--and you'd quit the band to get a real job. End of The Monkees. Either the guys would have to find a replacement and start all over again, or they'd give up entirely. Either way, I'd be responsible for destroying not only your dreams, but those of my friends as well. I won't be put in that position." 

"Isabel..." He turned his most persuasive voice on her, softening his features to add to the charm level. "It doesn't have to be like that." 

"Can you tell me it won't be?" 

He fell silent, turning her words over in his mind, and the most frustrating thing was that deep down, he knew she was right. He felt free to pursue his music career because Isabel was his girlfriend, not his wife. He didn't feel the need to settle down and get a "real" job because she supported his dream and encouraged him to make the attempt even if he ultimately failed. 

But they weren't going to fail! He could feel it--they were close to the break-through they needed. That was what made this sudden curveball so difficult to accept; she was right that he'd feel obligated to support his new little family, and he couldn't do that on what they made now. Not when he factored in all the bills a child generated in addition to the normal bills of rent, utilities, groceries, etc. 

A spark of resentment flared in him, and he wasn't sure what it was directed towards: himself, Isabel or Fate. His sense of honor demanded that he do the right thing and shoulder the burden he'd helped to create, but a tiny selfish voice inside his head was screaming with rage at the thought of having to abandon the career he'd worked so hard for just when it finally seemed they were beginning to make it succeed. 

"Dammit, Isabel!" His inner conflict boiled over and spilled out as he jumped up and stalked towards her for a head-to-head confrontation. "This ain't right! You can't seriously consider havin this kid out of wedlock. You know what people would think? What they'd say?" 

"Who cares?" she shrugged. "It's worth it knowing I haven't destroyed your life and your hopes. Besides, I'm not saying I don't want to marry you. I just want to wait til the band has finally made it--just like we originally planned." 

"The world don't work like that, Isa," he ground out through clenched teeth. "You're talkin about lettin our kid be born a bastard, and I won't stand for it!" 

"You don't have a choice," she replied with deceptive calm. "I won't marry you now, and that's final. We'll continue our relationship just like it has been. That way, you don't have to give up the band." 

"And how do you plan to support a kid on your own, huh?" he retorted scathingly. 

"I've got a job," came the annoyingly pragmatic answer. "And if worse comes to worse, I've got my trust fund money. I can take care of myself and the baby until--" 

"Like hell!" Mike exploded. "You're not gonna take full responsibility for my kid while I'm around!" 

"Oh, for God's sake, get your pride out of the way and face facts," she exclaimed. "You can't do it right now! Hear me? You _can't_! That's the plain and simple truth of it! And I am not going to let you walk away from the group just to get some boring, normal-formal job so you can!" 

"You got no right tryin to make this decision by yourself--this is half my problem, too!" 

"I am not the one whose entire life is in jeopardy because of this problem!" 

"So what do you plan to do? Shut me out of every other decision about the kid?" he demanded, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice. He knew what was happening here--it was turning into a battle of wills, and he strongly suspected he was going to end up the loser. Part of him didn't really want to win, and that made him feel even worse. 

"Of course not!" She released a short, annoyed breath. "When the baby is born, you'll be a father to it in every sense of the word. We'll be a family--just not a legally united one." 

"Oh, you think it's gonna be that easy, huh?" he sneered. "Well, you're foolin yourself, and you need to grow up, little girl. You just think what's gonna happen as soon as people start findin out about this. Your grandmother is gonna flip--if she survives hearin the news without keelin over of a heart attack first. People are gonna treat you like dirt, they're gonna look down on you, and I'm willin to bet your boss ain't gonna like it either. Nice girls don't get themselves knocked up." 

Her face drained of all color as she stared mutely up at him, visibly horrified, and he forced himself not to flinch; he hated speaking so harshly to her, but she had to face the cold, hard truth of what her decision would mean for herself and the baby in the long run. 

"It doesn't matter..." She appeared to be forcing the words out through stiff lips, putting on a show of bravado. "I don't care what other people think. I care about you, and I don't want you suffering the rest of your life because of an ill-timed accident." She paused, sucking in a deep breath and releasing it again slowly. "You listen, and you listen good. I am not marrying you now. There's nothing you can say that will change my mind, and if you keep pressuring me about it, I'll walk. I don't want to, but I swear I will. I'll leave here, and you'll never see me or the baby again." 

"What!" He gaped at her, shocked that she would even make such a threat. 

"I mean it, Mike." She gazed up at him, and he could see the steely determination in her eyes. "Don't push me. I'll do it. I'll walk. I'd rather leave you than ruin your life. I couldn't live with myself if that happened. The guilt would be too much for me to bear for the rest of my life, and I'd be terrified you secretly resented me for it." 

Fury rose up so strongly inside him it seemed to be robbing him of breath, and he felt himself beginning to shake with the effort of containing his temper. He had to leave; he had to retreat and regroup, because if he stayed, he'd end up yelling at her, regressing to emotional harrassment to get her to change her mind, and that would only drive a wedge between them. 

With a low snarl, Mike pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him hard enough to rattle the walls. Better to back off now and give her chance to think about what he'd said. With any luck, she'd come to her senses, but if not...If not, he didn't know what he was going to do--or what would happen to their relationship as a result. 

~*~*~ 

Peter glanced up, a spoonful of cereal poised halfway between the bowl and his mouth, growing wide-eyed when the front door burst open with such force that it hit the wall, almost rebounding into Mike's face as he stormed into the Pad. 

"Mike...?" Peter's voice was soft and hesitant. "Are you okay?" 

"No, dammit, I ain't!" Mike snapped, stalking around the living room like a furious lion. 

Peter lowered his spoon and pushed the bowl away, leaning his elbows on the table as he regarded his friend somberly. "What's wrong?" 

"What's wrong?" Mike echoed, uttering a short, mirthless laugh. "What's _right_? I'll tell you--nothin. My life has just turned to complete shit, and I don't know what to do about it." 

"What is it?" Peter rose to his feet, alarmed by this unexpected turn of events; icy fear gripped the base of his spine as he waited for Mike to explain. "What happened? Did you and Isabel have a fight?" 

Mike stopped pacing long enough to shoot Peter an exasperated look, sigh and rake his hands through his hair--a gesture Peter recognized as one of nervousness or frustration. "Yes, we had a fight. A big one," he admitted, lowering his voice at last. 

"Oh, Mike--I'm so sorry!" He hurried over and rested a comforting hand on Mike's shoulder as he gazed anxiously at him. "Why? You guys never argue." 

Mike's expression turned bleak, and Peter felt his insides quail at the sight; it meant things were bad--really bad. 

"She's pregnant," Mike said quietly. 

Peter froze, stunned into silence. She was...But that meant they...Oh, dear! He simply hadn't thought about that! Perhaps he shouldn't be so surprised as he was by the news considering how long they'd been together and how close they were, but still, it wasn't something he thought of as part of their relationship. Obviously, he'd been quite wrong! 

But--a baby! Mike and Isabel were going to have a baby! Mike and Isabel, who loved each other so much, who were so right together--they were going to have a baby! 

"Oh, but that's _wonderful_!" Peter exclaimed, his deep dimples nearly splitting his cheeks open as he beamed happily. "That's so perfect for you guys of all people to have a baby! It can't help but know it was born of love--" 

"It'll be a love child all right," Mike interrupted grimly. "She won't marry me." 

Peter faltered, staring at Mike uncertainly. "She won't? Why? I thought you were going to get married anyway." 

"We were. But she won't do it now ‘cause she says it'll ruin everything for the band, and she don't wanna be the one responsible for bustin up The Monkees." Mike broke off suddenly, releasing a short, aggravated breath. "Look, man--I don't wanna talk about this right now, okay? I just went ten rounds with Isa, and I ain't up to it. I just need to be alone for a while." 

"Sure, Mike," Peter said softly, giving his shoulder a gentle pat. "Why don't you go take a walk? Maybe that'll help." 

"I think I will." Mike turned and headed for the beachside door, his boots resounding on the hardwood floor with every step as if he were trying to stomp out his problems that way. 

Peter watched him go, but he didn't stop or pause to look back, and as soon as he was out of sight, Peter glanced at the front door, chewing his fingernail as he deliberated. Should he go over and talk to Isabel? She might need a friend right now, and he knew Mags was at work and wouldn't be back for hours. On the other hand, she might be just as angry and inclined to withdraw as Mike right now, but still...He drew himself up to his full height and walked to the door. If she didn't want to talk, that was fine, but she needed to know that someone was there for her--and he was _her_ friend too. 

She didn't immediately answer when he knocked, and it wasn't until he called out, "Isabel! It's me! Peter!" that he heard any noise inside; when she finally turned the lock and opened the door, she gazed wearily up at him. 

"Sorry," she said with a note of chagrin in her voice. "I thought you might be Mike back for another round, and I'm just not up to it right now." 

"No, I'm not here to fight," he assured her with a warm smile. "Just to listen if you want." 

Tears sprang into her eyes then, and she quickly raised one fist to knuckle them away as she stepped back so he could enter the house. 

"Come on in," she said, the words seeming to catch in her throat. 

He followed her into the living room and sat down on the couch, watching her expectantly; she seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then--much to his surprise--she curled up next to him and flung her arms around his waist, squeezing him tight. He slipped his arms around her, leaning his cheek against the top of her head and stroking her back soothingly, and even though she said nothing, he could feel her tears dampening his shirt as she wept on his shoulder. 

"Oh, Peter..." she whispered at last. "I don't know what to do...I should be happy about this, but it's impossible--the timing is too wrong, and it's just going to ruin everything. If I marry him, our lives will go to pieces, but I'm scared if I don't marry him, our relationship is over." 

"No, of course not!" he exclaimed, appalled at the very idea. They couldn't break up! They'd been together so long now that he couldn't think of them as separate anymore; they were Mike and Isabel. Together. And that was how it should be. 

"You didn't see him," she replied, her voice flat and lifeless. "He's so angry with me, and I don't blame him, but I can't let him throw his life--his dreams--away because of me or our baby. I told him I wouldn't marry him, and I even threatened to leave forever if he kept pressuring me about it." 

"You didn't mean it, did you?" Peter asked, a ripple of worry shooting through him. 

"No." Isabel shook her head. "He needed an excuse his pride would accept, and I provided one. I couldn't leave him," she added softly. With a sigh, she loosened her grip on Peter's waist, but she didn't move from the protective circle of his arms. "I couldn't make myself leave him anymore than I could make my heart stop beating. I just want him to back off, that's all. Just accept that my decision is best for all of us right now." 

"Maybe once he's cooled down, he'll see it your way," Peter said, trying to sound positive and cheerful, but inside, he had his doubts. Mike was stubborn if he believed he was right; unfortunately, Isabel was too, and they both obviously thought they were right in this situation. He only hoped one of them would relent before they inadvertantly did irrepairable damage to their relationship and to each other. 

"I hope so." Once more Isabel sighed, and this time she pulled away from him, scooting over a little so she could lean back against the sofa cushions. 

Peter watched her silently a moment, a profound awe growing in his heart. Isabel was pregnant--she was going to be a mother. There was already a brand-new little life inside her. A miracle... 

Slowly he reached out and rested his hand on her abdomen; she still looked as thin as ever, but he could feel a firmness under the skin that was different. She darted a startled glance at him, and he met it with a shy smile, delight blooming in his light brown eyes. 

"There's a baby in there..." he whispered with almost reverential awe. "Yours and Mike's...You created it together out of love..." 

Isabel smiled shakily in return. "We did, didn't we?" she murmured, placing her hand on top of his. 

"You're going to be parents--and I'm going to be an uncle!" His entire face lit up at the prospect. He liked children anyway, and he already loved this one because of who it was and where it had come from--two of the five people he loved most in the world. "Can I listen to it?" he asked eagerly, a hopeful undercurrent in his voice. 

"I'm pretty sure there's not much to hear, but sure," she laughed softly, her smile indulgent as she scooted down further on the couch so he could swing his legs up and stretch out beside her. 

Once he had, he rested his head in her lap and pressed his ear against her stomach, closing his eyes. Isabel smoothed his hair back from his face with gentle fingers, and he sighed with sheer contentment as he lay there and listened. Maybe it was his imagination, maybe it was Isabel herself, but he thought he could hear the faint sound of a heartbeat, and he snuggled closer, sending out warm thoughts of happiness and love to his niece or nephew within. 

~*~*~ 

Micky headed straight for Mike's hiding place among the rocks on the beach as soon as he hit the sand, instinctively knowing he'd find the hermit there. Mike had been gone for the better part of three hours--plenty of time to be left alone to brood--and now Micky wanted to talk. 

As soon as he poked his head around the outcropping of rocks, his suspicions were confirmed, but his normally cheerful face fell into somber lines at the sight. 

Mike sat with his back against a rock with his knees drawn up under his chin and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, and he was withdrawn into himself. His expression was blank--completely blank, Micky thought, feeling a tiny ripple of concern shoot down his spine. It wasn't merely a mask; his face was devoid of emotion, and it made him appear lifeless, almost like a zombie. 

"How you doing?" Micky asked softly, not waiting for the invitation he knew wouldn't be offered. 

Instead, he moved to sit down, dropping down on the sand beside Mike and folding his legs up Indian-style. He cocked his head questioningly, nudging Mike lightly with his elbow, and eventually Mike turned his head to look at Micky with empty eyes. 

"You heard," he stated flatly. 

"Peter told me," Micky said, his voice uncharacteristically soft and gentle. "I'm not sure whether to say ‘congratulations' or ‘I'm sorry'." 

"Me either," came the quiet reply. "I'd say it's the best thing that ever happened to me--if it weren't _now_. Right now, it's the worst. For me and for Isabel." 

Micky nodded, understanding completely. Peter had delivered the news with unabashed delight, and it was apparent that _he_ was thrilled by the prospect. But that was Peter, he thought with a sigh. Peter always saw the best in people and situations; his optimism had helped lift them all more times than he could count, but this time, not even Peter's enthusiasm could soften this blow. 

Part of him wanted to be happy for Isabel and Mike; he knew how they felt about each other, and under any other circumstances, he knew they'd both be jumping for joy--as much as either of them did such a thing!--at the idea of having a child together. But now... 

He pushed his hand through his curls and scrunched up his face, worry clear to read in his eyes. 

"She's right, y'know," he said at last, and Mike darted a startled glance at him. 

"What?" 

"Izzy's right," Micky repeated. "You guys shouldn't get married right now. It'd mean the end of the group, and I'm sorry." His voice dropped to a mere whisper. "I'm sorry, but I'm selfish enough not to want to give you up. It's us--all four of us together--that make the band what it is. If you leave, it won't be the same. We can't replace you, and it'd take too long to start over. I don't wanna do it. I'm sorry, man, but it's true." 

Already his conscience was stinging him for saying such things; his mother would have a fit if she heard him say that he thought an unmarried pregnant girl should stay unmarried when her young man was ready to "do the right thing" by her. But it was as Izzy said: there was more at stake, and he--and Peter and Davy--had a vested interest in the outcome. 

On the other hand, he hated like hell for Izzy to be in this situation, knowing the shame people were going to try to heap on her head. She didn't deserve it, and she'd be little better than a social outcast if she didn't agree to marry Mike as soon as possible. 

_What a mess_! he groaned silently, leaning back against the rock and closing his eyes. It wasn't even _his_ mess, but he felt deeply involved nonetheless. It was something that touched more lives than just those of the two main players, after all. 

"I know." Mike's voice was soft but unexpected, and Micky jumped, startled. "But that don't mean I gotta like it." He sighed and uncurled, stretching his legs out in front of him and stacking his hands behind his head. "I feel...I feel like I'm lettin her down. Like I'm not doin the right thing." 

"But it's what she wants." 

"For me," he countered, turning his head slightly so he could look at Micky. "She wants it for me. I got no idea what she wants for herself." 

"Look, I know Mags and I haven't been together as long as you and Izzy," Micky said earnestly, hoping what he was about to say would help relieve Mike's burden slightly. "But if you ask me, when you love someone, then what you want is for them to be happy. You want Izzy to be happy, and she wants you to be happy. You both want the same thing, but you think it means different things. It doesn't." 

"How can you say that?" Mike demanded hotly. "If I let her go on with this by herself, you know what'll happen. She'll be treated like dirt, she'll go through a living hell because of this, and the worst thing is, she'll go through it alone ‘cause she won't want to talk about it with any of us--especially _me_. I'm supposed to sit back and let her suffer like that?" 

"It's that, or you sit back and watch the rest of us suffer, including Izzy!" Micky retorted. "C'mon, Mike--don't try to tell me having to quit the band because of this kid won't make you mad. I know you better than that. You want us to make it--you want it so bad, you can taste it, and you're the one who's been driving us forward all these years. If it weren't for you, Peter, Davy'n me would probably already have broken up by now, just sort of drifted away because we didn't have the focus and ambition you've given us as a group." 

"Mick--" Mike's cheeks flushed pink, and he tried to protest, but Micky cut him off. 

"You know it's true, man." Micky locked gazes with him, speaking with such intensity that Mike appeared startled. "We all have different roles to play here, and you're the leader. We need you, and you need us. If you have to leave, you'll resent the kid and Izzy, and then--" 

"And then our relationship will be over," Mike concluded, jumping to his feet abruptly and beginning to paced back and forth. "Dammit, Mick!" He slammed his fist into his palm. "You think I don't know that? I do--and I hate it. I hate that I could be so selfish, but it's the truth." He stared out at the ocean, his expression bleak. "God, I wish this hadn't happened. It wasn't supposed to! I wish something would happen, and it would just disappear like a bad dream..." 

"Well, it won't," Micky replied, slowly standing up and approaching his friend. "You can't magic this away. You gotta deal with the situation as it is, and if you ask me, the best thing you can do for everyone involved is back off the marriage idea." 

"You're on _her_ side, aren't you?" he asked with a mirthless laugh. 

"No," Micky stated bluntly. "I'm on The Monkees' side. I love Izzy, and I hate to see her hurt, but she's willing to make this sacrifice for you--for us--and I'm willing to let her." 

Mike remained silent for a moment longer, and then he turned to face Micky. "Have you talked to Davy about this?" 

"No." Micky shook his head. "He hasn't gotten home yet. But you know him. He probably won't feel much different than I do. I'll be surprised if he does." 

"Yeah..." Mike chuckled softly then--a genuine laugh for the first time. "The only person who's geniunely happy about this is Peter. Typical, huh?" 

"Yeah," Micky agreed, a smile wreathing his lips. "He can't wait to be an uncle...I gotta admit," he added, his smile turning sheepish. "It's kind of a groovy thought." 

"It would be--if it weren't so damn complicated," Mike sighed, staring out over the endless rushing ocean once more. 

"Want me to start singing ‘Shades of Gray'?" 

"Shut up."


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three weeks. 

Isabel glanced over at Mike, who was perched on his stool on the bandstand, his head bent over Black Beauty as he concentrated--or pretended to concentrate--on tuning the guitar. Other than looking up and nodding curtly when he saw her walk in, he had pretty much ignored her presence in the room just as he had every night for the last three weeks. 

Mags insisted that she keep going to the band's nightly practice sessions despite the fact she and Mike hadn't had much to say to one another that wasn't argumentative lately. Convinced that proximity would help ease the tension between them, Mags all but dragged her next door every night, and from there, her three ministering angels took over. 

Peter's enthusiasm had been infectious, and now Micky and Davy were acting just as thrilled about the prospect of becoming "uncles" as he was--especially since they felt reasonably certain the band was safe, she thought, but without bitterness. She still felt she was doing the right thing, and she was willing to endure whatever she had to. 

But her self-appointed guardians were trying to make certain she didn't have much to endure while they were around. As soon as she walked in the door, one of them--the first to spot her--rushed over and took her arm to guide her to the couch as if she were a fragile invalid; by that time, the other two had leaped into action, fluffing pillows and offering to fetch her anything she needed or wanted, even to the point of preparing to run to the store for pickles because they'd heard pregnant women craved them. 

From there, they hovered around her as long as they could, asking endless questions and wanting to touch the baby, placing their hands on her rounded abdomen with such gentle reverence that it brought tears to her eyes. 

No one could doubt that she had all the attention and support she could possibly want--except from the person from whom she wanted it most. 

She wanted Mike sitting next to her, asking her how she felt, if she had any cravings, if she could feel the baby moving yet. She wanted him to look at her as if the mere fact that she was pregnant meant she was a walking mirable. She wanted to feel his hand on her stomach, to feel him caressing the place where the baby-- _their_ baby--rested. 

Instead, he avoided her. 

He was still angry; she knew that, and there was nothing she could do to make him feel any better unless she agreed to marry him, and while that might assuage his conscience, in the long run, she knew he'd only be more miserable. 

And the news she had wasn't going to make the situation any better, she thought with a resigned sigh. 

Mags reached across Micky, who was sitting beside Isabel, and lightly touched her leg; Isabel glanced up and met Mags' eyes, then nodded slightly. 

"Hey, guys." Mags rose gracefully to her feet and spoke loudly enough for them all to hear her. "We need a favor." 

"Sure." Micky beamed up at her, capturing her hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "What's up?" 

"Can we split for a while? Izzy needs to talk to Mike. Alone." 

Mike's head shot up, and he locked gazes with Mags, whose expression turned flinty as she silently dared him to defy her; he glanced away, visibly annoyed, but he didn't argue. 

Micky, Peter and Davy practically stumbled over themselves to vacate the Pad; Peter whispered a question--"Where are we going to go?"--and Isabel could hear Davy whisper back, "It doesn't mattah--we'll know when we get there!" 

Within two minutes, she was alone with Mike. 

Sucking in a deep breath, she stood up and turned to face him, but she didn't move to approach the bandstand, and he didn't get down from his stool. 

"Well?" he asked coldly. "You wanna have another round or two? Been too long since the last time?" 

Tears stung her eyelids, and she ducked her head, trying to hide how deeply his words hurt her. She knew it was only his guilt and pride that made him so angry at her continued defiance, but it wounded her nonetheless. 

"I...I have some news," she said at last, not trusting her voice much above a whisper. He didn't respond, and she didn't dare look up at him yet, so she continued. "Something happened today at work." She paused and clasped her hands together tightly, her stomach tying itself in knots. "Gregory--well, people have noticed--and--" 

Oh, why couldn't she deliver this calmly and matter-of-factly? Why did she have to stammer and stumble over every word like a terrified child caught in mischief? 

"I had to tell him the truth. People were talking, and he asked me if it was true, so I told him. That was three days ago, and today..." She faltered again, wringing her fingers so hard the knuckles turned white. "Today--well, it's all the owner of the paper's doing, you see. Mr. Lyons is worried about the image, and Gregory tried to convince him it would be okay, but it's not, so--" 

"You've been fired." Mike's voice was flat and harsh. 

Wordlessly, still not looking at him, she nodded. 

"Dammit!" The curse was hissed through clench teeth, but his vehemence made her flinch. 

Without warning, he slid off the stool and stalked across the room to stand in front of her, grabbing her shoulders and giving her a little shake to make her look up at him. 

"What did I tell you?" he demanded sharply. "You're only four months along, and it's already started! And it's only going to get worse--losing your job is just going to be the tip of the iceberg!" 

"I've got money--I don't need the job--" she protested, trying to wriggle free so she could back away, but he held her too tightly. 

"That's not the point!" he barked. As abruptly as he'd grabbed her, he let her go, letting out a derisive snort. "Stubborn little fool--you could've spared yourself this if you'd listened to me. You could still spare yourself a lot of grief if--" 

"If I married you," she spat, feeling her own temper rise as they began a new chorus of the old argument. "We've been through this a thousand times, Mike!" 

"And we haven't solved a damn thing because you won't listen to reason!" 

"And _you_ won't listen to your own heart!" she countered. "You're so wrapped up in your own pride that you've managed to convince yourself there's something noble about making this great sacrifice to marry me. It's _not_ noble, it's stupid!" 

"That's what _I_ think about what _you're_ doin! You're makin yourself suffer needlessly!" 

"Well, then why don't we just call the whole damn thing off?" she exclaimed, white-hot fury making the words burst forth before she was aware of what she was saying. 

Mike froze, staring down at her, his dark eyes growing wide. "What...?" 

"All we've done for weeks is argue, and we're making each other miserable! Let's just end it now, go our separate ways and have done with it! I'm sick of fighting--I'm sicking of worrying about everything I say--I'm sick of you treating me like I don't exist--and I feel like I'm losing you anyway--" 

"No!" 

Isabel cut off her tirade, shocked into silence by his outburst; when she lifted her eyes to meet his, she saw raw fear on his face, and she could feel his fingers digging into her arms when he suddenly clutched her shoulders again. 

"Don't you say it, don't you think it. You're not leavin me--you're not--you can't--" 

"Why not?" she retorted wearily. "What's the point in us staying together like this? Just because of the baby?" 

"No, that's not it." He shook his head, sliding his hands down her arms and reaching to slip his arms around her waist, pulling her close; she resisted for a moment, holding herself away from him--but only for a moment. 

It felt so good, so right to be in his arms again, and it had been so long... 

With a quiet sigh, she relaxed against him, nestling her cheek against his chest; slowly, she wrapped her arms around him, feeling him give her a comforting squeeze, and she returned it. One sigh, and she felt as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. 

"I don't want to lose you over this, Isa," he murmured against her hair. 

"I don't want to lose you either," she whispered. "But we've done nothing but fight--" 

"I know." He sighed and shook his head. "I know. Maybe we should just quit talkin about it for a while. We're not solvin anything, and it's sure not helpin." 

"No, it isn't," she agreed. "Please--please stop pressuring me. I'm not going to change my mind, and all this arguing is making things even worse for me." 

"I know, and I'm sorry," he told her, leaning down to kiss her; her eyes fluttered shut as she felt the gentle pressure of his lips against hers, and she returned the kiss with equal softness. It was not a kiss of passion but of quiet affection. "I'll back off. For now. But this isn't over, Isa," he said, a note of warning in his voice. "We still need to settle this." 

"I know." She nodded reluctantly. "But we really need to put this aside for a while, especially if we're going to save our relationship." 

"Yeah..." he sighed. "The last thing we need is to let this tear us apart." 

Releasing her, he caught her hand and led her over to the couch, sitting down and pulling her down next to him; she paused, wondering if she ought to react as she wanted to, but then she decided to take the chance. She curled up next to him, snuggling as close as she could and resting her head on his shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of his arm across her shoulders. 

For a moment, the past few weeks melted away, and things seemed almost normal. 

Almost. 

This was a respite, but not an end to the struggle between them, and even though he held her close, he didn't reach down to touch the baby once. 

~*~*~ 

"What about names?" 

Mike glanced up at Isabel, surprised by the question that seemed to come out of left field. Setting his lyrics notebook aside, he flashed a one-sided grin at her. 

"Thought that had already been settled," he drawled, chuckling when she rolled her eyes heaven-ward. 

"All right, fine--if it's a boy--" 

"Peter says it is," he interrupted, proud of himself for keeping such a straight face, and she shot him an "oh, please" look in return. 

"Sorry, but I don't consider the results of a ring suspended over my stomach an accurate indicator of our baby's gender," she replied. " _If_ it's boy, calling him ‘Michael' is fine, but we are _not_ calling him ‘little Mikey'!" 

He laughed outright at that--it had been a source of teasing fodder for the past month ever since Peter had declared his "ring test" determined she was carrying a boy. Micky had immediately shouted, "Woo hoo! We got a little Mikey in there!" Isabel had hated the nickname so much, of _course_ it had stuck. 

But, he thought wryly, she hadn't been alone; they'd stuck _him_ with a new nickname as well. 

"But what if it's a girl?" she asked. "We need to be prepared just in case," she added with a teasing smile. 

"Michaela?" he suggested, completely deadpan, and she flung a pillow at him. 

He caught it reflexively, laughing, and tossed it back at her. 

"You think about it," she said, stuffing the pillow behind her then rising to her feet. "I'm going to get a shower. Back in a few minutes," she called over her shoulder as she headed to her bedroom. 

Mike settled back comfortably on the couch again and picked up his notebook once more. But instead of returning to the lyrics he'd been working on, he found himself scribbling down names instead: Cordelia, Margaret, Augusta, Ophelia, and--grinning to himself--Janis. 

A sudden knock on the door brought him out of his reverie, and he glanced up at the entrance hall, then back at Isabel's bedroom door, which was still closed. If it were one of the guys, they probably would have just barged in... 

He got up and ambled to the door, opening it and glancing out curiously--only to find himself face-to-face with Margaret Evans herself. 

"Mrs. Evans." He tried to smile pleasantly, wondering how well he pulled it off. "This is a surprise." 

"It's been a while since I've seen my grand-daughter, Michael," she replied, and he had to refrain from wincing as he always did when she called him that. 

He had no objections to giving that name to the baby, but he didn't want to use it himself. Not anymore. Not after Caroline, who was the last person who had called him by that name. But with relations between himself and Mrs. Evans already strained enough, he didn't feel justified in asking her to stop. 

"She's...in the shower," he said lamely as he moved aside so she would enter the house. 

From her reaction, it seemed apparent that she didn't know about her grand-daughter's condition, and Mike silently groaned. As soon as she saw the evidence for herself, the shit was definitely going to hit the fan. _Not_ what he wanted to deal with at the moment, but it seemed he didn't have a choice. 

He followed Mrs. Evans into the living room, returning to his place on the couch while she sat down ramrod straight in one of the wingback chairs flanking it. Then they proceeded to stare at each other in total silence; for himself, he wasn't sure how to make small talk considering the blow she was about to be dealt. 

"Are you doin well?" he asked politely, determined to break the stalemate. 

"Quite well," she replied, matching his cordiality. "And you?" 

"Doin fine." 

More silence. 

He resisted the urge to fidget, wishing that Isabel would hurry up and make an appearance so they could get all the unpleasantness out of the way before he combusted from anxiety. At last, he heard the bedroom door open, and when he glanced around, he saw Isabel approaching; she had her bathrobe securely tied around her, but the thick terrycloth did nothing to hide the tell-tale bulge at her waist. 

As soon as she saw her grandmother, she gasped, one hand flying to her throat; her eyes went huge and round as she darted a frightened look at Mike, and he could see the silent plea in the dark brown depths. He answered with a tiny, reassuring smile and a little nod to let her know he was there for her, and she seemed to relax marginally. 

"Good God in heaven!" Margaret Evans exclaimed, springing to her feet with much more agility than Mike would have given her credit for. "Mary Isabel Evans, what have you done?" 

As Mike watched, Isabel drew herself up straight, squaring her shoulders and pulling her dignity around her like a shield before answering quietly, "Well, _that_ should be obvious." 

"You!" Margaret Evans rounded on Mike, fury kindling in her eyes as she glared at him. "This is _your_ fault! How dare you do this to my grand-daughter and just leave her to wallow in sin and shame! Have you no decency? Did it never occur to you to marry her?" 

"I've asked her repeatedly," he said calmly. "She says no." 

"What?" Mrs. Evans gasped and whirled to face Isabel. "Why? In God's name--why?" 

"I have my reasons," Isabel said. "I'm trying to do what's best for all of us in the long run. Mike doesn't understand, and I don't expect you to either." 

"No." Mrs. Evans shook her head slowly. Now that the initial shock had word on, her face was going slack, and she suddenly looked old and frail. "No...I don't see how you could even think about not marrying Michael when he's ready to do the right thing." 

"It's not a question of doing the right thing, Gram," she replied gently. "It's a question of not ruining all our lives." 

"I think you've already done that," Mrs. Evans retorted, and Mike stood up, looming over her imposingly. 

"No, she hasn't," he said quietly but firmly. "It's hard enough for her right now without you addin to it. I don't wanna hear any more of that sin and shame talk. What we did to create this baby didn't have anything to do with sin. It was all about us and how we feel about each other. Nothing else." 

Isabel shot him a look brimming with gratitude, and Mrs. Evans sucked in a deep breath and took a step backwards, lowering her gaze to the floor. 

"I...must think...And I fear I'm not up to it right now," she said faintly. "I need to lie down." 

"You can use Mag's bedroom upstairs," Isabel replied softly, gesturing to the stairs. 

Her steps were slow and her shoulders were slumped in a posture of near-defeat as Mrs. Evans moved slowly to the staircase. At the first step, she paused and turned back. 

"You're carrying high," she said, a seeming non sequiteur until she added, "It'll be a boy." 

And with that, she made her way slowly upstairs, leaving them alone once more. 

Isabel glanced at Mike warily. "You're not going to start in on me now, are you?" 

Mike watched her steadily for a moment. It would be easy to begin the fight all over again. It would be so simple to start demanding that she marry him again, to use the leverage that her grandmother was on _his_ side. 

But he wasn't going to. 

Yes, he still felt as if he were shirking his responsibilities, but she was willing to make this sacrifice for him--for the group he loved--and she had put herself through hell because of it. If he continued to badger her, he would only be adding to the problem, which was the last thing she needed, especially while she was already suffering because of the situation. 

As much as he hated admitting defeat--and that he was willing to be so selfish--he had to concede that deep down, he knew their relationship had a much greater chance of surviving if they didn't marry now. The band had a greater chance of making it if they didn't marry now, and if they _did_ finally succeed, he would be in a much better financial position to support his family. 

"Nope." He smiled slightly. "I'm not gonna start." 

"You're not?" She stared up at him, visibly startled. "But--" 

"It's okay," he said, reaching out to touch his forefinger against her lips. "You're not gonna hear another word about it from me. We're not gettin married now--but as soon as I can afford to support you and the kid, we are. Period. And you better not argue with me then, dig?" he added sternly. 

"Dig," she whispered, tears beading on her lashes. 

Suddenly, she flung her arms around his waist and squeezed him as tightly as the baby bulge would allow her. "Thank you," she murmured against his chest. "Thank you so much..." 

"Don't thank me," he said, slipping his arms around her shoulders. "I still don't like this, but I'm willin to do it your way this time." 

"It'll be okay." She lifted her face up to look at him, her smile tremulous. "I promise--we'll be okay." 

"I know." He ran one finger gently down her cheek. "We'll be together. It'll be okay." 

The look on her face--the gratitude, the new-found hope, the love--made his heart twist in his chest with guilt over the distance that had grown between them like a cavernous void, and he pulled her close, trying to reassure her that this was indeed the turning point they both felt it to be. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered against her hair. "It'll be different now." 

"Yes..." She nestled closer, skimming her hands up and down his back, a familiar caress that sent pleasant shivers along his spine. 

He didn't want to initiate anything--not after the way they'd treated each other--thus he was hesitant to react even though he wanted to kiss her more than anything at that moment. One of the lingering kisses they'd shared before, the kind that made him forget to breathe, the kind that made him forget to think. But he didn't feel he had the right to ask. Not yet. 

And then she reached up, cupping his face in her hands, pulling him down to her, pulling him into just such a kiss. He gave in eagerly, but as soon as they parted, he bent and scooped her up in his arms, cradling her carefully. 

"Your grandmother's upstairs..." he began hesitantly. 

"I don't care," she said, slipping her arms around him, beginning to kiss and nuzzle the sensitive skin of his neck as he carried her into her bedroom. 

He paused long enough to close and lock the door before depositing her on the bed as if she were made of delicate porcelain and stretching out beside her. 

It was the first time they'd even come close to being intimate in months, but that didn't mean the burning ache of desire for her had faded. No, far from it. He'd simply squelched it; while he was angry, he couldn't imagine making love with her. It would feel too much like using her, and so he'd kept his distance. 

But despite the rush of longing flowing through him, he froze when he parted the lapels of her bathrobe, seeing for the first time the swell of her pregnancy. 

His throat went dry as he stared at her midriff, and before he realized what he was doing, he reached out--his fingers trembling--and placed his hand there. A moment later, he saw a ripple beneath her skin, felt a flutter of movement against his palm as if it knew its father's hand rested above it. 

_My God...there's really a baby there_ , he thought numbly. _It's been abstract...just a vague idea...but now it's real, and it's ours. Isa's and mine. We created it together..._

It had to have been conceived sometime in October, and he turned his mind back, trying to remember when it could have happened. One memory stood out clearly--a starry night on the beach, lit by the pale, dim light of a new crescent moon. It was well after midnight but not cold; they'd been talking--about what, he couldn't remember now--and on impulse they'd decided to go outside for a while since it was such a clear, beautiful night. 

Neither of them mentioned the idea of making love on the beach that night, but both of them apparently had it in the back of their minds; they both were prepared "just in case," and they'd ended up cocooned in the blanket she'd brought. What he remembered most vividly was looking up at her, seeing her face suffused with pleasure, outlined by the stars imbedded in the black-velvet sky. 

Afterwards, he'd held her as close as he could, the rhythm of the waves and their bodies still singing in his veins, and they'd dozed off, safely wrapped in the blanket and each other's arms. 

_That_ was when he hoped this child had been conceived. On that night. 

He bent his head and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss where he'd felt the movement, nuzzled his cheek against the unfamiliar firmness, the tautness of her soft, pale skin over her rounded abdomen--and he immediately felt her chest hitch. Glancing up at her curiously, he saw her watching him avidly, tears swimming in her eyes. 

"Sorry," she sniffled and tried to muster a watery smile as she dashed them away. "You've got an emotional pregnant woman to deal with." 

"I think I can cope," he answered softly. 

"Really?" 

Her voice was breathless, and he saw anxiety in her eyes as if she almost dreaded his reply; it hurt to know he'd been the one to put it there in the first place, but from now on, he was determined to alleviate her fears, not add to them. 

"Yeah. Really." 

With that, he gathered her in his arms, holding her from behind as he curved his body around hers and linked his hands over their baby, silently hoping to feel him moving within her again. 

~*~*~ 

Mike stood in the doorway of Isabel's bedroom, silently watching the flurry of activity within. 

Peter and Davy were grunting and groaning as they hefted a sturdy antique wardrobe out of its former resting place, moving it to a smaller space on the other side of the room. 

Micky sprawled in the middle of the floor, surrounded by what seemed like hundreds of parts of the new crib he was trying to assemble which would be placed in the spot vacated by the wardrobe. 

On the bed, Isa, Mags and Mrs. Evans sat folding baby clothes that appeared to him something that would scarcely be big enough to fit a doll, much less a baby. 

"You sure those are going to be big enough?" he asked, crossing the room to pick up a tiny white set of footie PJs, holding them up and examining them dubiously. 

Isabel laughed softly. "Oh, yes. Dr. Bates said since I haven't gained a lot of weight in the first two trimesters, and I probably won't gain much in the third either, Michael won't be a very big baby at all." 

"Huh." He frowned at the PJs, turning them over in his hands until Mrs. Evans finally reached up and took them from him, folding them neatly and adding them to the growing pile. 

And _that_ , he thought with a mental chuckle, was something he never thought he'd see. Especially not after the colossal fight Isabel and Mrs. Evans had had the first night she'd been there. 

They'd argued back and forth for nearly two hours, and Mike had watched and played referee until they began going in circles--just as he and Isabel had done--when he stepped in and called a halt to the whole thing. His voice cold and terse, he'd reminded Mrs. Evans that she had already come close to losing her grand-daughter once before because of her stubbornness and pride; Isabel had made up her mind, he said, and she wasn't about to give in--as he knew very well himself. If she wanted to blame anyone for Isa's stubbornness, he added, she had no further to look than herself, and he strongly suggested that she simply accept the fact that Isa was not going to marry him. 

To everyone's surprise, she had. 

Maybe she was getting mellow in her old age, or maybe she simply didn't want another estrangement from her grand-daughter, but whatever the reason, the result was the same: Mrs. Evans had backed down just as Mike had, and moreover, she'd begun visiting more and more frequently. 

Which was good, Mike thought. Because a lot of Isabel's so-called "friends" had abruptly disappeared. The people she thought were her friends from work, some of their neighbors--they no longer called or invited her out, and some of them even visibly snubbed her if they saw her in public. 

Micky, Peter, Mags and Davy had closed ranks and tried to protect her as much as possible, as had he and even her grandmother in her own way, but it wasn't enough to assuage the hurt such blatant snobbery, and many times he'd been woken on the occasional nights that he spent with her, feeling her body shaking as she silently wept. 

But while Mrs. Evans had made no bones about her continued disapproval of the situation, she had bought the crib, bought baby clothes, bought toys--the kid, he thought wryly, was already set, and he wasn't even born yet. 

"Hey, Papa Nez." Micky glanced up at him from where he sat among the mess on the floor. "Come help me with this, okay? I need you to hold the headboard up while I attach the rails." 

Mike ambled over to assist Micky as he'd requested. Between the two of them, they managed to have the crib put together within half an hour while Isa, Mags and Mrs. Evans finished folding the stack of new clothes and put them away in the dresser Isa had cleaned out just for that purpose. 

Micky rolled the crib over against the wall, and Isa got up from the bed and went to stand by Mike, slipping her arm around his waist as she looked at the new piece of furniture as Micky examined it closely, inspecting his work for miniscule flaws. 

"Good job," she said, smiling up at Mike. "Thanks." Her smile broadened into a teasing grin as she added, "Papa Nez." 

While Micky, Peter and Davy had taken to using the nickname on a regular basis, Isa saved it to use as an endearment rather than a nickname, and while he managed to keep his expression neutral, he always felt a bloom of affection in his chest every time she said it in that soft, loving tone. 

Mags and Davy arranged the blankets and pillows in the crib, fussing over it until they'd finally gotten it to comply to their vision of perfection, then Mrs. Evans placed a couple of the stuffed toys at the head of the little bed. 

"I hope for the baby's sake that it _is_ Michael and not Michaela," Isabel said wryly, gesturing to the blue blankets and blue accented pillows. "Otherwise, she's going to have to learn to like blue." 

"Is that what you're going to name it if it's a girl?" Micky asked, his expression radiating curiosity. 

"Nope." Mike shook his head. "Margaret Ophelia," he said, earning a pleased look from Mrs. Evans, whose first name was also Margaret. 

Just then Peter slipped past them, approaching the crib, clutching something tightly against his chest. He stood by the rails for a moment, gazing down at the empty bed, his eyes unfocused and his expression suffused with love as if he could already see the infant lying within it. After a moment, he reached down and tenderly placed a lumpy object in the crib, and when he backed away, the rest of them could see a battered teddy bear lying amid the brand-new pillows and toys. 

"Mr. Bean?" Isabel darted a startled glance at him. "Peter--" 

"I want Michael to have him," Peter said in a tone that was soft but brooking no argument. "Mr. Bean belongs to him now." 

Mike reached out and rested his hand on Peter's shoulder, smiling down at him. "Thanks, man. It's the best present he could get." 

"No," Peter shook his head and smiled radiantly at Mike and Isabel both. " _He's_ the best present _we_ could get." 

Staring at him in mute amazement, Mike felt himself reeling from the impact of those quiet words. He hadn't realized Peter felt so strongly about the baby...or how much he agreed with him. 

"You're right, Pete," he answered huskily as he gave Isabel an affectionate squeeze, smiling as he felt her return it. "You're absolutely right." 

~*~*~ 

Micky yawned and knuckled his eyes sleepily as he swung his legs out of bed; a glance at the clock told him it was a little after midnight, but he'd been unable to get to sleep. Another glance at Mike's empty bed told him that someone else wasn't able to get to sleep either, but, he thought with a quiet snort, that was nothing unusual for their resident night owl. 

He got up and headed for the bedroom door, intending to go downstairs and snag some of that pizza left over from dinner, but as soon as he grasped the knob and opened the door, he stopped in his tracks, arrested by a sound. 

Curious, he tiptoed to the iron rail and peered over the side down into the living room; there below, he saw Isabel on the couch with Mike, nestled as closely as she could to his side and leaning her head on his shoulder. For his part, Mike had one arm draped around her shoulders and the other hand resting protectively on her abdomen. His dark head was bent over hers as if he were focusing on little Mikey rather than Isabel herself, and Micky suddenly realized the sound he'd heard was coming from Mike, who was singing. 

"Cares of the day have fled, my little sleepyhead..." 

Micky blinked, startled by the gentleness in Mike's voice as he softly sang. 

"Saddle up your pony; Sandman's here to ride down the trail of dreams..." 

The lyrics and the tune itself were unfamiliar, and Micky wondered if it was something Mike had written himself; the imagery sounded like something he'd use, but Micky had never heard that particular song before. 

Even from a distance, he could see how tenderly Mike caressed the growing baby, and Micky smiled, pleased that things had finally settled down for Mike and Izzy. The first few months had been rough on them--on everybody--but now it seemed that they'd worked out their problems and were focusing on enjoying impending parenthood rather than letting it tear them apart. 

The song ended, and Mike pulled back slightly. 

"Now _you_ need to get to bed too, little lady," he said mock-sternly, tapping the end of Izzy's nose with his forefinger. 

"Yes, Papa Nez," she replied, a teasing note in her voice. 

"Smartass," he said, but his tone was so laden with affection that she merely smiled and kissed him. 

Micky shrank back against the wall, hoping they wouldn't notice him as they got up--Isabel struggling a little, Mike carefully assisting with a steadying hand on her elbow--and headed for the front door. He wondered if this was going to be a night that Mike spent with her or if he simply planned to walk her to her door. 

Watching as they strolled out, their arms around each other and clearly wrapped up in their own little world, Micky felt a pang in his heart and wished that he could run next door to Mags. The longer they were together, the more he was certain that she was The One, and he heartily regretted all those months he'd wasted pushing her away. 

Before Mags, he'd wondered how Mike could be so certain that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Izzy, how he could be so willing to limit his options by committing to her completely. 

He didn't wonder any longer. 

If he were honest, he'd have to admit he was slightly envious. He imagined marrying Mags, seeing her body grow and change as she carried their children--and he wanted it all now. He wanted forever and happily ever after with her, he wanted two o'clock feedings and shirts with baby spit all over them, he wanted to see the first grey hairs she got, the first wrinkles, and he wanted to tell her she was still beautiful as ever with them. 

He wanted the rest of his life with her. 

Now he just had to find out if she wanted it too. 

~*~*~ 

Over at her desk, Isabel sat up straight and placed both hands on the small of her back, grimacing slightly; alerted by the movement out of the corner of his eye, Mike glanced up from his notebook, fixing her with a curious look. 

"You okay?" he asked, concern lacing his voice. 

"Yeah..." She waved dismissively, but he could still see lines of pain etched in her face. "My back's hurt a little all day, and it just gave me a bad twinge, that's all." 

"Aw..." Pushing himself up off the couch, he ambled over to her and stood behind her chair. 

Removing her glasses, she tossed them on the desktop next to her typewriter and smiled up at him. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he slid them down, massaging her lower back gently. She leaned forward to give him better access, resting on her elbows and closing her eyes. 

"Mmm...Feels nice..." she murmured, and he bent to kiss the top of her head. 

"Good." 

He continued to rub her back, concentrating on loosening the tight muscles he felt stretched taut beneath her skin. He'd found himself falling into an odd sort of nurturing role, catering to Isabel even more than Micky, Peter and Davy had been; he'd fetched and carried for her, given endless backrubs, and basically treated her as if she were all but incapable of doing anything for herself. It had been a source of amusement and sometimes irritation for her; she'd insisted that she could manage perfectly for herself, but he didn't want her to. He wanted to take care of her, to pamper her, to make sure that he could make at least one part of her life easier. 

_Not much else was_ , he thought grimly. He'd seen first hand far too many times how people treated her--ignored by friends, shunned by strangers who noticed her lack of a wedding band. Losing her job had been a blow, and now this. 

The good news was that she hadn't given up writing; she'd simply turned it down another path, trying her hand at fiction writing as she'd always wanted to do but hadn't had the time to experiment with while she was immersed in journalism. If she hadn't had her writing--her coping device as music was his--he felt certain she wouldn't have dealt with the entire situation as well as she had. 

But they were managing. Together with the help of their true friends, they were going to make it just fine-- 

His train of thought was abruptly shattered when Isabel sucked in a sharp breath, her entire body abruptly tensing beneath his hands. 

"Isa...?" 

She didn't answer, and it seemed as if she couldn't; her breath was coming in panting gasps, and her features were contorted with agony as she clutched her stomach, rocking back and forth slightly. 

"Isa--" Mike knelt by her chair, smoothing her hair back from her face as he peered anxiously at her. "What's wrong, querida? Are you okay?" 

She let out a loud gasp, then collapsed against the back of her chair, trembling, and she reached out, groping for his hand with hers. He caught it, grasping it tightly. 

"A pain..." she whispered, her face still pale and drawn. "Not in my back this time..." 

"Where, darlin? Where did it hurt?" he asked, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he probably already knew. 

"Here," she said, running her hand across her abdomen, and he rested his hand there, rubbing gently as if he could ease her suffering that way. "It was awful--" And suddenly she gasped again, sweat beading on her forehead as she bent over, squeezing Mike's hand so hard he felt as if her slim fingers were going to break his own. 

This wasn't right. 

Mike remembered Dr. Bates said she might experience discomfort, maybe even something akin to mild contractions on occasion, but he'd said nothing about this sort of searing pain. 

"C'mon, I'm takin you to the doctor," he said decisively. "Can you stand up?" 

Isabel released his hand and clutched the chair arms, trying to lever herself up, but the pain appeared to ripple through her again, and she collapsed in the chair once more, shaking her head wordlessly, biting her lower lip, perhaps to keep from crying out. 

Without hesitation, he reached down and scooped her up in his arms, ready to carry her to the car, but before he could take a single step towards the door, he glanced down--and froze. 

The seat of her chair was covered in blood. 

~*~*~ 

Someone--he didn't pay attention to who it was--had pressed a cup of coffee in his hand a few minutes or perhaps a few hours ago, but Mike hadn't taken a single sip. It was cold now, but still he clutched the styrofoam cup tightly as if it were a talisman that could somehow ward off the nightmare he'd just lived through. 

Around him, the microcosm world of the hospital flowed ceaselessly; pages buzzed over the intercom system in the background, white-clad nurses hustled by with charts and syringes and little paper cups of pills in their glove-covered hands, and everyone was busy, so busy as if they were running out of time to accomplish their jobs for the day. 

But for Mike, time had stopped. He was scarcely aware of the bustle of activity around him; he was scarcely aware that his friends hovered nearby, casting worried looks at him and exchanging helpless glances with each other. 

His mind was stuck on an endless loop at that moment--that horrible moment when Dr. Bates had approached him, his plump face etched with sorrow. His light tenor voice had been soft and kind, but it had done nothing to erase the agony inflicted by his words. 

"I'm sorry, Mike. There was nothing we could do. It was too late to try to stop the labor, and six months was just...far too soon. We couldn't save him." 

From somewhere far away, Mike heard Davy gasp, "It _was_ a boy...?" 

Mike had stared at him blankly, feeling a strange sort of icy buzz in his head as he fought to process what Bates had said. 

"You mean..." He'd found his voice--a raspy whisper--but he couldn't bring himself to say it. To say it would mean that it was true... 

"I'm sorry," Dr. Bates repeated. "Isabel is sedated, but you can go in to see her if you like." 

He'd gone, but she was sleeping or unconscious. Either way, she didn't wake, and she didn't know he was there, and so he'd slipped away again, retreating to the hallway where he'd stayed ever since, perched on the edge of a chair, rocking back and forth slightly without even realizing what he was doing as he gripped the tepid coffee cup in both hands. 

"Mike..." A gentle voice penetrated the mental haze he seemed to be lost in, and he glanced up to see Micky gazing down at him. Micky reached out and rested his hand on Mike's shoulder comfortingly. "Izzy's awake now. You wanna see her?" 

See her...? And say what? How was he supposed to talk to her about this when he felt so crushed under the weight of his own grief that he could barely speak? 

Mutely, he nodded. He had to see her now. Even if no words of comfort came, he had to see her. She might need him, and he knew for certain that he needed _her_ right now. 

He rose to his feet slowly and awkwardly as if he were an old man, but before he took a step forward, he stopped and stared down at the coffee cup, suddenly at a loss for what to do with it. Micky solved the problem by taking it from him and giving him a gentle push between the shoulderblades towards Isabel's hospital room door. 

His hands shook when he reached for the door handle, and he tried to school his features into some semblance of calm; she'd be upset enough without having to see him upset as well. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself and pushed the door open, peering around it to see her--a tiny, fragile-looking figure almost as pale as the sheets she lay in. For one wild moment, he wanted to run to her side, to cling to her, to cry and wail about the unfairness of it in the safety of her arms. But that wouldn't help either of them, and besides, he'd left the need for such histrionic outbursts long behind him, back in Texas. 

But when he looked at her and saw her stomach flat beneath the coldly pristine white blanket, it was almost his undoing; he clenched his fists, clamping his lips together tightly as he fought to maintain control. Instead, he forced himself to walk into the room, to approach the foot of her bed, curling his fingers around the rail there so hard that his knuckles turned white. 

Isabel looked at him, but her face was devoid of expression, and she didn't speak. 

"Hey, Mike," Peter greeted him softly from where he stood beside Isa's bed. "I'll just leave so you two can talk--" 

"No." Her voice was flat and cold, the single word sharp as a gunshot in the stillness of the room. "I don't want to talk to him. I haven't got anything to say to him. He's the one who should leave." 

"What?" Peter gasped, visibly horrified by what she'd said, but Mike simply bowed his head, making himself a willing target for her anger. 

"You never wanted this baby," she said in that same eeriely lifeless tone. Not even her eyes held a spark of life in them, as if it had all been drained from her. "You've resented it from the moment I told you I was pregnant." 

Guilt assailed him, and he felt himself beginning to shake, but he couldn't muster any defense. He had never told her how happy the idea of having a baby with her had made him, especially once they'd gotten through their own problems. He hadn't been able to say the words, just like he couldn't bring himself to tell her other things about how he felt--about her, about their relationship, about their future together. He was too afraid of giving her power over him, and now he was paying the price of his silence. 

"I hope you're happy," she continued. "It's over. It's gone. You don't have to worry about it anymore. I'm sure you're relieved." 

"Isabel, no--" Peter shook his head, his light brown eyes wide with shock. 

Mike forced himself to release the rail, prying his cold fingers from it, then he backed away slowly, still keeping his eyes avert from her. He couldn't bear to look at her; if he did, he risked losing control, risked breaking down right in front of her. 

He needed to retreat...He needed to escape this awful place...to go somewhere safe where he could let down his guard in solitude and safety. 

He needed to go home. 

~*~*~ 

Peter opened the front door, peering around it hesitantly, wondering what he was about to walk in on. He'd followed Mike home from the hospital, instinctively sensing that Mike needed someone right now, and Isabel had Micky, Mags and Davy to look after her. If he went home alone, Mike would have no one. 

Given Mike's volatile temper, he wouldn't have been surprised to see Mike throwing things, and he thought it strange he didn't hear any yelling as he approached the Pad, but the house was quiet...untouched... 

And Mike was perched on the edge of couch, his elbows propped on his knees, his face buried in his hands. 

Peter slipped inside, watching his friend carefully, trying to figure out what was going on. Was this merely the prelude to the storm? Was he going to erupt at any moment? 

All of a sudden, Peter gasped and took an involuntary step backwards, his hand flying to his mouth as he realized Mike's shoulders were shaking, that he was making noise--soft, almost silent hitches in his throat. 

For the first time since he had met the reserved young man, Peter was seeing Mike cry. 

Immediately, he hurried over to the couch and sat down, throwing his arms around Mike's thin shoulders without hesitation. He expected to be shrugged off, but to his surprise, Mike didn't react one way or another, and he took that as an encouraging sign. 

"It's okay, man," he crooned. "I got you. Let it out." 

It seemed as if the shaking grew worse then, spreading out to encompass Mike's entire body as he gave himself over to the full force of his grief, and Peter held him tighter, trying to offer what comfort he could. 

"I ain't--" Mike finally dropped his hands and turned his head to look at Peter, showing him the proof to back up Peter's suspicions; his cheeks were wet, his eyes red and swollen, his entire face cast in lines of such abject despair that Peter felt his heart wrenching in his chest, tears welling up in his own eyes at the sight. "I ain't relieved, Peter," he said, his voice sounding thick and clogged. "I ain't--" 

"Shh, I know," Peter assured him. "I know you're not--" 

"I wanted him," he continued, and in his eyes Peter saw pain and grief such as he hadn't seen since Micky learned that his cousin was dead. "I wanted the baby--my son--" 

He hid his face again, keeling over until he leaned against Peter, still wrapped in the comforting safety of Peter's arms, and Peter simply sat and held him, not speaking. What could he say, after all? He knew nothing of this kind of grief; he'd been lucky enough not to lose anyone close to him, which he knew would be bad enough. But to suffer the death of a child, even an unborn child—? He couldn't begin to imagine what either Mike or Isabel were feeling. 

"I know you did," Peter said at last when it seemed Mike had calmed down somewhat. "Isabel does, too, but she's hurting too much right now to think straight. You guys need to support each other. This is one time you don't need to hide your feelings from her, Mike. You can help her heal better if you let her help you too." 

"I don't wanna make it worse for her--" he replied, his voice still watery. 

"You _won't_ ," Peter insisted. "She'll know you understand _her_ feelings because you share them. Come back to the hospital with me, Mike," he coaxed. "Come back and talk to her, tell her how you feel. She needs to know that she's not alone." 

"She's _not_ alone..." Mike said slowly, raking his fingers through his hair as he gave a deep, shuddery sigh. 

"No," Peter said gently, stroking Mike's back soothingly. "And neither are you."


	3. Chapter 3

Mike pushed the hospital room door open, then stood hesitantly in the doorway, scoping out the scene before venturing in Isabel's room again; Micky was sitting on the edge of her bed, holding one of her hands in both of his, and Isabel remained just as Mike had left her, leaning back on two pillows, her posture and expression listless. As soon as Micky glanced up and saw Mike standing there, he released her hand, stood and hurried over, his face etched with concern. 

“Talk to her, man,” Micky whispered anxiously. “She needs you.” 

With a firm nod, Mike stepped into the room, and Micky gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before slipping out and shutting the door behind him, and--unbeknownst to the two left inside--set himself as a temporary guard to make certain they weren't disturbed. 

As soon as Isabel glanced up and saw him, the blank expression on her face gave way to a strange blend of shame and concern--the first sign of life he'd seen in her countenance. He stopped half-way between the door and her bed, uncertain whether he ought to go closer; he stood there, plucking awkwardly at his own fingertips as he waited for some sign from her. 

“Mike--?” she asked, her voice laden with unshed tears. “You came back...I'm so glad...” 

He slowly lifted his eyes to meet hers, his expression somber, but he didn't reply; without another word, she held out both arms to him, tears welling in her own eyes as she beckoned him into her embrace. He didn't waste another moment, hurrying to her side; without hesitation, he gave in to the impulse that spurred him to crawl into bed with her, stretching out beside her and burying his face against her neck as she curved her arms around him protectively. 

“I'm sorry,” she whispered as she threaded her fingers through his hair, and he nestled as close as possible, gathering her in his arms as much as he could without hurting her. “I was hoping you'd come back so I could tell you how sorry I am about what I said. I didn't mean it, love. I was hurt and angry--” 

“I know...” he murmured, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “I understand, mi amore. But you were wrong. Relief is the _last_ thing I feel right now. Yeah, the timin was bad--we both agreed on that--but that don't mean I wasn't--” The words caught in his throat, and he had to force them out. “It don't mean I wasn't happy about us havin a baby together. Maybe I didn't tell you like I should've, but I _felt_ it--” 

“I know,” Isabel interrupted him gently. “But you _showed_ me, especially these last few weeks. I didn't mean it--I shouldn't have said it--” 

He looked up then, finally meeting her eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet but intense. “I just don't want you to think you're grievin alone, Mary-belle. You're not. I loved Michael too, and I already miss him.” 

There. 

He'd said it. And the rush of relief he felt at the admission let him know he'd done the right thing in telling her. 

Without a word, she tightened her arms around him, her eyes filling with tears as he rested his head on her shoulder. 

“I feel so empty,” she whispered. “My body--my heart--there's something missing now--” 

Mike nodded and--without thinking--he slid his hand down and curved it over her abdomen--and the tender gesture seemed to be her undoing. Her tears fell freely as she clung to him, and he offered strength and comfort when he pulled her close, nearly crushing her in his desperate embrace as he sought strength and comfort in return. 

Even after her sobs abated, he didn't release her or lessen his hold on her, and she made no move to pull away--not until Micky reluctantly allowed a persistant nurse to enter the room, and even though Mike removed himself from the bed, he pulled a chair as close as he could and kept her hand in his, providing silently eloquent support. 

*~*~*  

Peter hung back near the line of cars at the curb, not part of the small knot Davy, Micky, Mags and Mrs. Evans had formed as they quietly talked, but separate from Mike and Isabel too as they stood silently watching the tiny grave being filled in. 

The rest of the mourners--a few friends and former co-workers who'd remained loyal, including Gregory--had left after the service, but it was clear those two were not ready to leave yet. Mike's face was pale, but he'd remained outwardly calm, not shedding a tear in front of anyone but Isabel or Peter, but Isabel wasn't so stoic. Peter had seen silent tears rolling down her cheeks several times over the past two days, and even now, he could see wet tracks on her skin as she stood in front of Mike, leaning against him as he curved his arms protectively around her. 

Hesitantly, Peter approached them, tugging at Mike's sleeve. "I just wanted to let you know we're--we're in no hurry. We'll wait til you're ready to go, Papa Nez." 

Isabel visibly flinched at the use of that nickname, and Peter flushed, suddenly realizing how painful it might be to hear that now, but he hadn't thought about it before he said it. They'd been calling him that for months now, after all... 

"I--I'm sorry, Mike," he stammered apologetically. "I shouldn't have said that--I'll try not to call you that again--" 

"No, man, it's okay." Mike turned to look at him, his expression kind. "Michael is our son--our firstborn--so I _am_ a papa. I always will be from now on." 

Peter nodded and smiled, trying to convey his affection and support, feeling a tiny bloom of warmth and hope when Mike smiled slightly in return. He returned to the others, who glanced over at him as soon as he approached. 

"Did you tell ‘em we'd wait?" Micky asked in an unusually subdued voice, slipping one arm around Mag's waist and pulling her close as if needing the comfort of her presence close by. 

"Yes, I told them," Peter replied softly as Mags reached out to slip her arm through his and draw him into their circle. 

"You think we ought to be with them...?" Davy asked, watching the pair with concern in his eyes. 

"No, I think this is something they want to face alone for now," Mrs. Evans replied. "They need some time to grieve by themselves." 

Staring at her with new-found admiration, Peter wished there was some way he could tell the crusty older lady just how much he and the others--especially Isabel--appreciated how she'd dealt with the situation. Not just Isabel's pregnancy but the death of her first great-grandchild as well. Not only had she come to accept the fact that Isabel wasn't going to get married any time soon, but she had been an unexpected source of comfort as well. She had helped Isabel prepare for the baby's arrival. 

And now she had helped Isabel and Mike say good-bye. 

As soon as Peter had called her on the day Mike had to rush Isabel to the hospital, she had immediately come to Malibu Beach and waited with the rest of them for news. When the tragic word finally came, she had visited Isabel briefly--and then disappeared to begin arranging a funeral for the still-born child. 

She'd taken matters into her own hands, making all the decisions herself, which was just as well since neither Mike nor Isabel were in any state of mind to do it. She had even managed to get a marker made in record time: a marble monument simply inscribed, "Michael Evans, 1969." None of them had thought of making arrangements like that, and even the mere mention of a funeral had shattered Isabel all over again. 

But in the end, they were all grateful for the chance to say good-bye to the one they'd never had a chance to know, to grieve together and to begin letting go. It had been a wise decision, one that--while painful--would be beneficial in the long run. 

"I just ‘ope they'll be all right," Davy sighed. 

"They will," Peter said, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly. "They're together. They'll be fine." 

"And they've got us waiting for ‘em when they need us," Micky added with a firm nod. 

"Yep," Mags agreed softly, giving him a fond look. "They've got the rest of the family behind them all the way." 

Mrs. Evans gave her an odd, startled look at that, but then she slowly nodded. "I must admit, I had my reservations about Mary Isabel living here at first." 

Peter glanced over in time to see Mags elbow Micky sharply and to see Micky shut his mouth with a snap as if she'd prevented him from making some sort of comment--which she probably had. 

"But," Mrs. Evans continued, oblivious to the little exchange, "I feel no qualms about leaving my grand-daughter here to recuperate. She's in good hands." 

"We'll take care of her and Mike," Peter assured her. 

"You'll take care of each other," she replied calmly. "Of that I have no doubt." 

A slow, sweet smile wreathed Peter's lips at that; it was the truth, and he was grateful she'd finally realized it. "I don't either," he said. 

Around him, the others softly murmured assent, and they drew even closer together, establishing contact somehow--an arm around the waist, a comforting hand on the shoulder--as they waited for Mike and Isabel to join them at last so they could all go home together.   



End file.
